


Home Video: A Master Class in Documentary Filmmaking

by ama



Series: An Exploration of the Nadir-Barnes Canon [4]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Muslim Character, Reviews, Unconventional Format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25721302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: It's been years since the reappearance of some college projects led to calls for Abed Nadir to produce a feature-length documentary. Home Video is finally here, and it does not disappoint. It may, however, break your heart.
Relationships: Abed Nadir & Gobi Nadir, Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Series: An Exploration of the Nadir-Barnes Canon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772737
Comments: 22
Kudos: 139





	Home Video: A Master Class in Documentary Filmmaking

**Author's Note:**

> This was the last actual idea I had for the Nadir-Barnes Canon series, aside from a few random headcanons. I'm not saying it's over for good, but as of now I am going to be considering it complete. I SO appreciate all the comments and kudos, and if y'all want to talk more about it, please feel free to message me at @greenandhazy on tumblr or on either of the Trobed discord servers.

You know the long-running cultural joke about how the most reliable to make a straight man cry is to play Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” in front of him? I have a new proposal: take him to see _Home Video._ I made the mistake of taking my own father to my first viewing of Abed Nadir’s new documentary. Why not? I thought. It’s about the relationship between fathers and their children, and my dad was a big fan of Nadir’s last movie—surely we would both enjoy it. And enjoy it we did, if by “enjoy it” you mean “bawled our eyes out.”

It’s no exaggeration to say that _Home Video_ is the most highly-anticipated documentary of the year, if not the decade, if not the 21st century thus far. Director (cameraman, editor, subject) Abed Nadir is primarily known for genre-bending fantasy and sci-fi productions, including Oscar-winning films _The Pen_ and _Regional Nightmare_ and perennial Emmy favorite _Ballad of the Bard._ There has been rampant speculation that he might produce a documentary ever since some of his student films emerged online following an interview with NYU film students a number of years ago. While still obviously being student productions, the short documentaries are delightful, and Nadir hinted that he might return to the genre. He warned, however, that he preferred interpersonal topics to issues pieces, and that many of these personal projects (particularly _Pillows and Blankets,_ which explored his college friendship with his now-husband) were intended more for reflection than distribution.

 _Home Video_ began as that type of project. The breadth and depth of this film is stunning; it appears that, for almost twenty years, Abed Nadir has had virtually no conversations with his father, Gobi, that weren’t recorded at least in part. The reason for this is laid out in the first two scenes. The opening scene is, according to interviews, Abed Nadir’s first time holding a camera, as part of an assignment for an Introduction to Film course. It is, frankly, terrible camera work—viewers are likely to get motion sickness as he captures his father’s angry refusal to pay for said film class. “It was hard enough to talk to him before! Now we have this between us!” he says, gesturing at the camera. 

In the second scene, however, Gobi has had a change of heart. In a talking head, he explains that he has watched the short movie that resulted from this film assignment, which was about his divorce from his ex-wife when Abed was six years old, and that this is the first real conversation father and son have had about the incident in fifteen years. (The former Mrs. Nadir is mentioned several times throughout the documentary, sometimes with affection, but declined to be filmed.) He acknowledges that the camera has been more of an aid to communication between them than an obstacle, and gives Abed permission to communicate via camera if he chooses.

And he does choose. In the first segment of the film, Abed primarily follows his father in his daily life as he works his falafel restaurant in Greendale, Colorado, and talks (sometimes grudgingly) about his life—his childhood in Gaza, his immigration to America, his marriage and divorce, his dislike of American media but surprising appreciation for rock music, his parenting philosophy, and his instructions for the perfect falafel. (The audience is not privy to the specifics of the recipe, only reminded that chickpeas are superior to fava beans.)

A noticeable shift occurs about one-third of the way into the documentary, when Abed moves to Los Angeles to work on the television show _8bit,_ his first TV credit. From then on, the focus is on his life, and his father’s guidance, as Abed reunites with and later marries his husband, Troy Nadir-Barnes, as they adopt and raise two children, and as his career skyrockets. Incredibly, most of the camerawork—and, for that matter, the editing—was done by Abed himself, along with the occasional friend or family member, and the footage is about as real as it gets. Traditional talking heads, late-night phone calls, and arguments all have their place in this film. Unlike reality TV, however, nothing in this documentary is dumbed down. The camera is committed to presenting life in all its complexities. It does not linger over drama, and neither does it unsnarl any conflicts for the audience; occasionally we get glimpses into a history and an intimacy that simply cannot be conveyed in the course of any documentary, even one such as this. This only serves to enhance the realism of _Home Video,_ not detract from it.

Case in point: the scene that will make you and your dad melt in a puddle of tears. (Beware—here be spoilers.)

In the climactic scene, Abed enters the hospital room where Gobi is awaiting treatment for a malignant brain tumor. He asks the usual questions one asks when rushing to greet a family member in the hospital—and then he looks at the camera and says “I don’t think you should be filming this.” This phrase is not unusual in the context of _Home Video,_ where both camera and cameraman are prominent characters, although typically Abed is the one requesting access, not attempting to limit it. But in this scene, Gobi confirms that he wanted to ensure this moment is captured, because the documentation of his death would provide an emotional catharsis to a film almost twenty years in the making, serve as closure for his surviving family, and become a permanent record of the wisdom and last words he wishes to pass on. This, itself, is poignant when compared to the opening scene, but it becomes utterly heartbreaking when Abed proceeds to argue that this is not the end of the film, that they need to stop filming, and that is father is not dying.

Cue sobbing.

And then the scene cuts away to a darkened office lit by computer monitors. Abed looks directly into the camera, holds up his hand in a greeting, and pays homage to Peter Falk in _The Princess Bride,_ telling the audience “He does not get beaten by cancer at this time. The cancer doesn’t get him. I’m explaining to you because you look nervous.” He drops the voice, smiles, and says, “I got to this point in editing the film and I couldn’t get through it—I just couldn’t, and I know what happens. So I needed to stop and tell you… he’s in remission. He’s okay.”

There is more to that small interjection, that tell-don’t-show, 4th-wall-breaking, conventional-wisdom-defying snippet, but to be quite honest, I needed to get the transcript from a producer, because I didn’t hear a word over the cheering in my theater, and neither has anyone else I asked. Like air travelers who applaud when the plane hits the tarmac, viewers everywhere are moved to make their appreciation vocal, knowing it can’t be heard, in acknowledgement of the journey we’ve gone through together. Abed proceeds to explain that it was this cancer scare that prompted him to turn this pet project into a feature film: “My dad was my first audience. I can never make this movie if he doesn’t get a chance to see it—and he deserves to see it. So here you go.”

There are a few brief scenes still to go in the film, but I keep coming back to this one. We’re no strangers to death in movies, either fiction or nonfiction. And yes, Gobi’s argument that his death would provide emotional catharsis for this film is particularly genre-savvy, something he no doubt picked up from watching movies with his notoriously geeky son. Who among us did not sob through a viewing of Marley and Me? But there is something different about _Home Video,_ something that makes Gobi’s recovery not only more pleasant but more _narratively satisfying._ Grief, in real life, is rarely narratively satisfying. On the contrary, it leaves us feeling that something is cut short, something missing that ought to continue. We react to the news of Gobi’s recovery as if he were a personal friend, not a character on the screen, because this is no ordinary documentary.The intimacy of it is almost unprecedented, and Abed Nadir deftly manages to tell a universal story without glossing over the unique complexities of his own life.

Over the years, Nadir has alluded to being neurodivergent, a broad term that can refer to a number of developmental and mental health conditions including autism, ADHD, dyslexia, OCD, and others. He has staunchly refused to discuss details with fans or the media—and _Home Video_ does not disclose this information either. However, it does provide insight into the impact that Nadir’s neurodiversity has had on his relationship with his father. One of the most poignant scenes is a conversation recorded in late 2010 where Abed bluntly asks if his father thinks he’s crazy, and confronts him about a series of failed diagnostic doctor’s visits that made up his childhood that left him with lingering trauma. Gobi’s defensive response will be familiar to parents of children who ever missed a developmental milestone—it was concern and caution that led to the many doctor’s visits, and wanting his child to begin life on the best possible foot. It’s not wrong to be different, he says, but wouldn’t it be helpful to know how?

“No,” Abed replies. “I know what I am. I know that I’m weird and special and maybe I am crazy, but I’m not a _problem._ I don’t want a doctor to say he knows what’s wrong with me and how to fix it. I don’t want to be crazy. I don’t want to be fixed.”

Alone, this brief monologue could become an admittedly long-winded slogan for any number of disability advocacy organizations, but _Home Video_ is not in the business of pithy slogans. It goes further in showing the ways that the camera itself helps Abed navigate social situations and interpersonal relationships. In some cases, the camera is an obvious benefit—even genius. There is a missing scene from the film, for example, wherein Gobi Nadir defends Abed’s two sons, Rickie and Leon (who are Black) from a racist comment. Abed was not present, and evidently Gobi was reluctant to share the story on camera. Instead, Abed attempts to get it out of his children—who are also reluctant to explain.

“Remember,” he says. “Behind the camera, I’m not your dad, I’m the director. And a director has no authority to give out punishments—he just wants to know the story. You’re never going to get in trouble for something you tell the camera.”

I’m not a parenting expert, but as someone who kept a lot of secrets from my parents as a teenager—I was impressed. Throughout the film, in fact, Abed manages to convince a surprising number of people to reveal a surprising number of secrets. Not only his father and his children, but his husband and assorted family friends all contribute short reflections throughout the documentary. (Most poignant, in my opinion, was a talking head from Abed’s college friend Jeff Winger, who became a parent just a few short years before him but had a very different relationship to his own father.) The artificial objectivity of the camera can be cathartic. The distance between subject and documentarian can be truly beneficial—providing both with perspective they would otherwise lack. This is the reason Abed took up a camera in the first place. People are hard. Characters are easier.

At the same time, the documentary does not try to hide the fact that Abed often struggles to relate to people without a camera. This is most prominent in early scenes and in any discussion of his childhood or early adulthood—there is a maturation process throughout the film, and the audience can see Abed become less awkward and more personable over the years. But maturity doesn’t erase essential characteristics, and Abed still has occasional struggles with empathy and the desire to sit back and observe, rather than get tangled up in the emotional mess of participation. Sometimes the camera can be a hindrance in this regard.

This is best exemplified in a scene more than halfway through the film, where Gobi and (mostly) Troy, Abed’s husband, discuss a family wedding. While the bride and groom are familiar with and supportive of Troy and Abed’s relationship, many of the guests are unaware, and the wedding itself will take place in Palestine. Abed is invited, with some combination of his family—but the bride’s father, his uncle, has requested he keep closeted for the duration of the event.

This is not an easy conversation, one that is familiar to many queer people but complicated by race, religion, and the politics of diaspora. Troy is staunchly opposed to the idea, alluding to past struggles with being closeted and coming out to family that he has no desire to revisit. Gobi is apologetic, but maintains that compromise is sometimes necessary and that maintaining family ties is more important than any moral or ideological disagreement. The argument bounces between them and gets increasingly more heated—until finally Troy looks at the camera and asks “Abed, what do you think?”

“I’m not really in this scene,” Abed says, a common refrain throughout the movie as Abed-the-director tries to remain a fly on the wall. A look of obvious frustration passes over Troy’s face. He takes a deep breath.

“Abed,” he says, doing his best to be patient. “I need you to be in this scene. Okay? We need you _here_.”

Abed does put the camera down and join the conversation himself, but it’s clear that he is uncomfortable with the emotional minefield and preferred to view it from the relative safety and impartiality of the director’s role. This is one of many scenes in the film that feels almost embarrassingly intimate—I found myself turning my face away from the screen automatically, as if I needed to give privacy to a man who had volunteered to put his marriage on the big screen.

Unlike disability, sexuality is not a topic Nadir has ever been shy about—largely because that would require him to _not_ talk about his husband in public and he doesn’t seem capable of making that commitment. Troy Nadir-Barnes makes frequent appearances in his husband’s twitter feed and cameos in his work. To date, he has appeared in both TV shows and four movies, often as a dancer, his semi-professional occupation in real life. Together, with Abed’s classic blazer-over-graphic-tee look and Troy’s colorful suits, they’re probably the most-photographed mixed-celebrity-status couple on many a red carpet.

But aside from the aforementioned _Pillows and Blankets_ short, recorded in 2012, viewers haven’t gotten deeper into their relationship. No surprise, it’s delightful. While not technically the “star” of the documentary, Troy makes frequent appearances throughout, a dependable confidante and support even (especially) when Abed’s relationships with his father or his children get rocky. Perhaps this portrayal of a healthy, loving queer relationship isn’t as groundbreaking as it would have been a few decades ago, but it’s refreshing nonetheless—and I, for one, immediately got home and turned on Hulu to rewatch Episode 4, Season 3 of _8bit._ This is Troy’s first cameo in any of his husband’s work, a scant few months into their marriage. He’s just as delightful in the few scripted scenes wherein he makes an appearance, as “Hot Dance Instructor,” modeling for the programmers at Flipper Studio.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least touch on the way that _Home Video_ discusses race, ethnicity, and religion. Nadir has consistently refused the title of “activist filmmaker.” He maintains that his primary goal is to tell particular stories of particular people, not to make sweeping statements about race relations in the United States. “I have no interest in capturing the definitive Muslim-American experience, whatever that means,” he has been quoted as saying more than once.

At the same time, Nadir has never tried to ignore race. As an individual, he has used his platform to amplify the voices of other creators of color and voice support for racial justice movements. As a creator, his “particular stories” are, more often than not, stories about people of color—they are simply meant to broaden our perspective on what people of color are capable of, rather than pinpoint a more “authentic,” and thus limiting, perspective. One could argue that _Home Video_ is more of the same—only now, Nadir himself is that particular person, his family those particular people. They are, by any definition, a multicultural family; Gobi and Abed Nadir are both Palestinian Muslims; Troy Barnes-Nadir is a Black former Jehovah’s Witness; their two adopted children are both Black, and the question of which (or any) religion they ought to be raised with is discussed over the course of the documentary. (Ultimately, the elder son, Rickie, elects to attend religious and Arabic classes at an Islamic Community Center and undergoes formal conversion, while the younger, Leon, takes on some of his father’s cultural practice but shows little interest in formal worship.)

I can say this with certainty: of all the movies I’ve seen that tackle interfaith and interracial relationships, interfaith and interracial adoption, anti-Black racism, Islamophobia, the politicization of the Palestinian diaspora, the intersection of race and sexuality, and Black-Arab relations among American Muslims, _Home Video_ certainly handles the topics with the most deftness. That being said, this film is a narrative, not a survey. Any one of these topics would be worthy of a full-length, exploratory documentary, and audiences should not expect a history or social studies lecture in the theater. Nor should Nadir be expected to provide one. There is a particular pressure experienced by many minority ethnic and religious groups in the United States, wherein every individual is expected to be an ambassador, a bastion of knowledge for the curious who dispenses history lessons, ancient wisdom, and simple solutions in easy soundbites.

The Nadir-Barnes family are not ambassadors. Nor are they performing, in this documentary, for a white gaze. They are simply living their lives, in all of their glorious intersections. Sometimes that requires complex dialogue about religion and upbringing and what that means. Sometimes it’s as casual as squeezing Eid parties in between school, work, and extracurriculars. One of the most touching recurring threads in the film, as a matter of fact, is falafel. Falafel is the family business, but comes to stand in for tradition, love, family itself. An early scene features Gobi teaching his recipe to Abed-as-the-camera (although, having worked at the restaurant previously, Abed-the-person already knows it). Closer to the midpoint, Gobi likewise teaches his son-in-law—although we learn, in one of many fourth wall breaks, that Troy actually requested the recipe via email and practiced it on his own in LA. The scene is a less-than-accurate recreation months later, when the couple has traveled to Colorado for their wedding.

“I think falafel is becoming a motif,” Abed says, offscreen. “Don’t address the camera.”

The motif pops up again when Gobi teaches his grandsons, and then finally in the concluding montage. (Again: spoilers.) If the scene of Abed Nadir confronting his father’s mortality was the one that made _me_ cry the hardest, this concluding montage is the one that got my dad. It begins immediately following Abed’s reassuring _Princess Bride_ moment, and in any other film I would call it saccharine; after two hours of viewing, though, we know that this is atypical for the gruff Gobi, which saves it from being a Tastes Like Diabetes moment. Gobi, from his hospital bed, gives a brief monologue intercut first with flashbacks to other moments in the documentary, and then with footage of his treatment and recovery—being visited in the hospital by the entire family (and then some), looking through photo albums with his grandsons, being driven to appointments by his son-in-law, watching old episodes of _8bit_ with his son, and yes, arriving home to a “Happy Recovery” party in his living room to find beaming kids and an enormous bowl of falafel.

Meanwhile, Gobi apologizes to Abed for his disapproval of a film career, which the audience saw in the beginning of the documentary and then again, briefly, when Abed presented his first LA job as a _fait accompli._

“I was always worried,” Gobi says. “All I could think about was what you couldn’t do. How you needed my help. I understood you a very little bit and I worried that no one else would understand you at all—that if anything happened to me, you would be alone, and so I needed to prepare you, and the only path I could prepare you for was the one I knew. But I’m not worried anymore. You’ve become more successful than anyone could have hoped for. You have your strange codependent friends. You have Troy, and the boys. You won’t be alone. Inshallah, you’ll be happy, even without me. I never said it enough, but I love you, Abed, and I’m proud of you.”

I’ve gone back and forth on whether to include this last monologue in this review. There’s a line somewhere—you’re not supposed to give away the most emotional, gut-punch moment of the movie in a review. Ultimately I decided that there is no way to ruin _Home Video,_ because there is no way to feel the emotion of those last scenes until you’ve spent twenty years with Abed and Gobi Nadir, observing, empathizing, growing. Besides, if Abed can break the rules a little bit, so can I.

Go see _Home Video._ Bring your dad, your mom, or your substitute parental figure of choice. And yes—bring your tissues.


End file.
